baby's in the cradle and the devil's in my head
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: Tim tries to figure out what to do after his father's attempt to discipline him goes too far. Title from Satan Pulls the Strings by The Avett Brothers
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I re-read Robin (1993) #45 recently because there's been a tumblr post going around with the scene where Jack yells at Tim for "disrespecting" him, then rips his TV out of the wall, with a lot of meta about how it's emotionally abusive. I agree completely, and I've been thinking about writing a story based on that issue (and that whole arc where Tim gets in trouble for something he didn't do) for a long time.

But there's a panel earlier in the comic that's just as troubling. Jack grounds Tim and send him to his room without even talking to him about what happened, and Mrs. Mac makes a comment about how he's lucky that Jack doesn't take a belt to him for what he did. (Which again, he didn't do.) So, well... What if Jack had taken her advice?

I'm moving this up to modern times so Tim has a smartphone. Kind of dumb for Jack to take away his TV and not his phone, but he also left his computer in the original comic. So Jack's just not the smartest guy when it comes to modern technology.

* * *

Tim lay on his stomach in his bed, trying to absorb what had just happened. His father had just come into his room and beaten him with a belt. Yeah, the word was beaten, not spanked, though that was what Jack had called it. It had hurt so much that he felt like he was being cut in half, and he was in so much pain now that he could barely move.

He had cried himself out already, his tears soaking the pillow below his head, and now he just lay there, feeling numb. His face was damp, but his mouth and chest felt dried out. He was thirsty, but he couldn't imagine getting up to get a glass of water. Just rocking his hips from side to side sent bolts of pain shooting across his backside and down his legs.

Tim had been terrified when Jack loomed over him and screamed at him earlier, accusing him of disrespecting him. There had been a feeling like being at the top of a rollercoaster, except less safe. Like anything might happen. He'd half-expected Jack to hit him then, slap him across the face or push him to the floor. He'd been relieved when Jack had just ripped his TV out of the wall and stormed out, telling him that he had lost television privileges for the duration of his grounding. Tim had put more effort into contacting his allies about the hostage situation he'd been watching on TV, trying to alert someone to the fact that things weren't what they seemed there.

But that wasn't the end of it. Jack must have sat downstairs for a while, brooding on how Tim had "dissed" him, how he was getting too wild and out of control. After half an hour he came back, holding a wide, heavy strap in his hand. He told Tim that Mrs. Mac was right. Tim needed a dose of the belt to keep him in line.

Jack had never spanked him before. Or beaten him. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe he'd hit Tim too hard without realizing it. Maybe he hadn't meant to hurt him this bad.

Then, again, maybe he did mean it. He'd hit Tim over his jeans a few times, then made him take them down, then his underwear, too. He must have seen what he was doing. He must have seen how dark red and welted Tim's skin was by the end of it. When he was done, he stood there panting heavily for a few moments, the strap hanging down by his side. Tim bit his pillow and tried not scream, his entire body shaking like electricity was going through him.

Jack didn't apologize. He didn't even pat Tim on the back and tell him it was over. "That'll teach you," he said, grim satisfaction in his voice. "No more disrespect, Tim. This is how I'll serve you from now on if you keep up that bad attitude. You hear me?"

Tim nodded into the pillow.

"Out loud, son."

Tim turned his head and looked at him through watery eyes. "Yes, sir." He couldn't make his voice louder than a whisper.

Jack nodded firmly. "Good." Then he left the room. Tim gave in and cried. He cried for a long time.

He was done crying now. He'd managed to pull up a sheet to cover himself, but he didn't know what he was going to do when he had to pee. He felt drained and lost.

So pathetic. He was Robin. He was a superhero. People looked up to him. He fought criminals and kept Gotham safe almost every night. He didn't cry when he got punched and knocked around. Even during the harshest martial arts training that left him aching all night long, he hadn't shed a single tear. But a belting from his dad left him weeping like a baby into his pillow until he had no tears left.

Tim looked over his shoulder down his body. He swore he could see his bottom glowing through the thin white sheet. Then again, this wasn't just a belting, was it? It wasn't just a spanking. It had been...too harsh. Too severe.

It was abusive, wasn't it? Tim knew what abuse was. It had been part of his training with Batman to be aware of the signs so he could help. That part of his training had made him feel so bad for the children who went through that stuff. He was always on a sharp lookout for kids who were being mistreated by their caregivers, because he wanted to stop it. He wanted to save them.

It wasn't right. No child should be afraid of their parents. No child should be touched in a wrong way by a teacher or babysitter or anything like that. It was evil, some of the most evil stuff that he and Batman fought together.

Tim knew the law. Mild spankings were still legal, but anything that left marks was considered abusive nowadays. And his dad had definitely left marks. A lot of them.

Somehow Tim couldn't make it fit in his head, though. The idea that his dad had abused him. That he had been abused. That wasn't how this was supposed to work. It didn't seem true. If it wasn't for the deep, throbbing pain settling into his butt and legs, he could have believed that the whole incident with the belt had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Jack was gone a lot, yeah, and he was bad at spending time with Tim even when he was home. He made plans with Tim and then canceled them, sometimes, and even when they did do things together it was always what Jack wanted to, nothing that Tim was particularly interested in. It felt like Jack liked the idea of being a father, but he didn't really know what it meant to be one in real life.

He took Tim fishing even though neither of them were good at it, then got upset when they didn't catch any fish. He tried to play catch with Tim in the backyard, then called it off when Tim was already good at it and didn't need his coaching (thank you batarang practice; maybe Tim should have pretended to be bad at it). He took him to a baseball game and spent most of the time there on his phone talking to one of his archaeological contacts about an exciting new dig, regret in his voice that he was in Gotham instead of there. Then he dropped out the next time they were going to go to a game and took Dana out for the weekend instead.

After Jack came out of his coma, he said a lot of things about spending more time with Tim, being a better father, getting to know him. And he did try. At first. After he was able to walk again, and he started dating Dana, and he wrote that book and went on his book tour to talk about it... With all that going on, spending time with Tim kind of fell by the wayside again. But it was fine; it wasn't like Tim had expected anything different.

Just a few days ago, he'd been _longing_ for his dad to come back. The thing with Ariana was such a mess, and Tim had just wanted to talk to someone about it, someone he could ask for advice. This had nothing to do with Robin, and he couldn't bother Bruce and Alfred with Tim Drake stuff. He didn't really have any other adults or mentors he could imagine talking to about this.

But Jack had said he wanted to be there for Tim. Tim wanted to take him at his word. He'd even thought about sending Jack an email or texting his phone, but he knew he was busy and didn't want to interrupt. Plus, it wouldn't be the same if they weren't talking face to face.

And now Jack had come back, but things hadn't gone as he'd hoped at all. Tim had blown his chance by paying too much attention to the TV when Jack came to his room intending to talk. He _had_ been disrespectful. Maybe Jack had overreacted, but Tim was still in the wrong there.

And he did often complain internally about how Jack only wanted to spend time with him when he had things going on with Robin. Sometimes he'd even sort of wished that things would go back to the way they used to be, with Jack always gone and Tim able to do pretty much whatever he'd wanted. He felt bad about it, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling that way.

So it was Tim's fault, then. If he'd been a better son, if he'd paid more attention, this wouldn't have happened. If he wasn't Robin and hadn't gotten caught up in that hostage crisis on TV, he would have listened to his dad and would have been able to talk to him about Ariana. And maybe Jack would have understood and rescinded the grounding and given him advice on how to deal with it. Things could have gone so much better if Tim wasn't Robin. If he was better at being Jack's kid instead of Batman's partner.

But Tim loved being Robin. It was his favorite thing. And Batman needed him. Maybe not as much now as he had at the beginning, but at least a little bit. He didn't want to have to choose between being Robin and being Jack Drake's son. He wanted to be both.

Plus, if he wasn't Robin he couldn't see Stephanie again. Or hang out with his friends with Young Justice. Or go running over the rooftops with Dick. Or help Alfred make cookies for a charity bake sale. Or...

It turned out that Tim had a few tears left, after all.

He didn't know what to do. He should probably call the police. His father had abused him; that was just a fact. As much as Tim tried to deflect and blame himself and call it an overreaction, Jack had still beaten him with a belt until Tim was in too much pain to move. That wasn't right, no matter the circumstances.

But if he called the police, he was going to be taken away, at least temporarily. He would end up in a foster home, probably, and he wouldn't be able to be Robin anymore. There would be a messy lawsuit and all sorts of things, and in the end he would probably end up back with his dad anyway. It was only one incident, and Jack could afford good lawyers. And Gotham was not exactly a paragon of non-corruption.

Jack would win, but he would be upset about the scandal, and by the end of it he would probably resent Tim even more. He might not hit him with the belt again, but he would spend more time away and avoid interacting with Tim as much possible. Or he would just send Tim away to a boarding school in another state, like he kept threatening to do. So Tim would lose Robin without gaining anything for his troubles, and he wouldn't be able to help Batman anymore.

But if he did nothing, this was going to continue. Jack had already said that he was going to keep using the belt to punish Tim for bad attitude and disrespect. As much as Tim could tell himself that he would try to be good and be a better son from now on, he knew it wasn't going to last. He was going to be late getting home from something with Robin, or get caught sneaking out, or just talk back without thinking about it. He did that a lot. Tim didn't get want to be beaten again. It hurt so much.

Plus, what if it got worse? Tim shuddered. He wasn't sure how it could get worse, but somehow he knew it could.

Jack might start hitting him randomly, or shove him into the wall. He would be smart enough not to do it where the bruises would show, but it would still hurt. He might even hurt him badly enough that Tim wouldn't be able to go out as Robin. He certainly wasn't going to be doing anything for a few days now, even if he wasn't grounded.

Or what if Jack hurt him, and Tim went out anyway, and then the injury made him mess up somehow? What if he got one of his friends hurt? What if he failed Batman because of this?

Tim's stomach felt cold. No. No, he couldn't allow it.

Maybe he should talk to Jack? Tell him that he couldn't keep hitting Tim like this, or he would go to the police? Would that work? He was willing to accept punishments for his misdeeds and disrespect, even spankings if they didn't leave marks. He could accept a certain amount of pain and humiliation to keep Jack happy. But he couldn't let it affect his work as Robin.

But the thought of talking to his dad about this made him feel even more cold. He didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted it to stop.

Maybe this was something he could ask for advice about. It had to do with Robin, after all. But there was no way he could tell Dick or Alfred or his friends. They would make him go to the police right away. Heck, Dick was a cop himself. He would be horrified and hug Tim tight and tell him his dad would never hurt him again. He might even cry. Tim didn't want to make Dick cry.

Part of him wanted it, though. Part of him wanted to get on a bus right now and go to Dick's apartment down in Bludhaven and just fall into his arms as soon as he opened the door. He could let Dick make the decisions, let Dick take care of everything. It would be so nice not to have to think about this anymore.

But no. He had to be responsible. He had to make the right choice.

Tim stretched his arm for the phone on his nightstand, gasping when the pull in his muscles reached down to his glutes. The pain had settled down to a hearty throb, but of course even that slight movement riled it up again. He pulled the phone to his face and breathed through the pain until it subsided. Then he opened his contacts and scrolled through them, trying to decide.

Of course Bruce was right near the top, under "B." Tim stopped and stared at that single letter, his eyes so dry they ached. He hadn't been able to get hold of Bruce earlier tonight, but of course he didn't take his phone on patrol. He was probably still out there right now, fighting the good fight, protecting the innocent and bringing criminals to justice.

Bruce was reasonable, and he valued Tim for his work as Robin. He wasn't as emotional as Dick or as sentimental as Alfred. He would understand Tim's dilemma and be able to advise him how to deal with this. Maybe he could help him figure out how to talk to Jack about toning it down, or maybe he would even come up with some other solution. Something that didn't involve calling the police and or stopping Tim from being Robin.

Because Tim really, really didn't want to give up Robin. He had to take a deep, shuddering breath just at the thought of it. When he really stopped, really let himself think about it, he had to admit that he liked being Robin more than he liked being Tim Drake.

This was related to Robin, but it wasn't life or death. Tim didn't need to get hold of Bruce right away. He scrolled back up to Alfred's contact and selected his personal cell to send a text. No need to call the cave right now. It wasn't that important. Nowhere near as important as a hostage crisis with a criminal about to get away, for instance.

_Alf, could you ask Bruce to come talk to me after he's done with patrol? It's not urgent or anything. But if I could see him tonight, I'd really appreciate it._

_Of course, Master Tim. I'll be sure to let him know. Are you all right? Is there a reason you're choosing to text instead of call?_

It was so he wouldn't break down and start sobbing over the phone at the sound of the kindly gentleman's voice. Tim couldn't say that, though.

_It's fine, I just don't feel like talking. I'm grounded, but I'm sure Bruce can get up the tree outside my window. He won't even need a grapnel. You'll tell him?_

_Certainly. Are you sure you're all right?_

_I'm fine. I'm really tired, so I'm gonna turn in now, but Bruce can wake me up when he gets here._

_Very well, Master Tim. Sleep well._

Tim put the phone face down next to his pillow and moved his head, trying to find a spot that wasn't wet with tears. And he tried to sleep.

It was a long time coming.

* * *

A/N: Yes, there will be a part two in Bruce's POV. Spoilers: He's not as unemotional and logical as Tim expects.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce dropped into the Batmobile, satisfied with a night of work well done. He had just taken care of the bank robber Tim had been so concerned about, and he was looking forward to telling him about it. It was pretty funny. He knew Tim was grounded, but maybe tomorrow he could pretend to be golfing in the backyard or something and hit a bad slice and just happen to go over and talk to him... He wanted to see the kid's face when he heard the story. He could just imagine Tim's look of mingled incredulity and amusement.

"Master Bruce?" came Alfred's voice, crackling through the cab. He sounded uncharacteristically worried for such a relatively calm night.

"I'm here, Alfred. Something to report?"

"You need to go see Master Tim. He said it's not urgent, but I'm not sure I trust that."

Bruce frowned and took off down the street, heading home. "He called you again? I know he was worried about that hostage situation, but I took care of it. No one was hurt."

"It's not that. He said he needed to talk to you. Well, he texted me. That, after calling earlier. It just seems...odd."

"Yes, it does." Bruce squinted out the windshield. "What were his words exactly?"

"Just that he wanted to talk to you, and he would appreciate seeing you tonight. He insisted that he was fine when I asked, but his tone was uncharacteristically formal. I fear something may have happened between when he called and when he texted, but I don't know what it was."

"All right. I'm on my way home. Twenty minutes out."

"I believe you should dress down for the occasion, sir. Don't go through the underground passage. Master Tim said you should use the tree outside his window, so he must want to keep this meeting from his father."

Forty minutes later, Bruce stood at the base of the tree outside Tim's room, dressed in comfortable workout clothes. He swung himself up into the branches with easy grace and shimmied to the window. It was unlocked. The lights were on in Tim's room, and Bruce could see him sleeping face down in his bed, covered with a sheet.

He slipped inside and knelt next to Tim's bed to put a hand on his shoulder. Tim's cheeks were flushed and streaked with dried tear tracks, and his forehead was wrinkled even in sleep. Bruce frowned, not liking that at all.

He gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Tim, buddy. Wake up. I'm here."

Tim stirred, his body shifting under the sheet, then woke with a gasp. His eyes flew wide open, like he'd been electrified. Bruce pressed his shoulder a little harder, and Tim looked up at him, then relaxed back down on the bed. He seemed relieved to see him. Almost too relieved. Bruce could feel his shoulder trembling. "Oh. You're here."

Bruce tried a reassuring smile, but dread was building in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. "Yeah, kiddo. I'm here. What's going on?"

Tim bit his lip. Now that Bruce was here, it seemed he wasn't sure how to say what he'd wanted to tell him. It was also strange that he wasn't sitting up to face him. He seemed rooted to the bed.

The dread in Bruce's chest pinched more sharply. He cupped his hand around Tim's cheek and rubbed at the tear tracks with his thumb. "What happened, partner?" he asked, his voice as soft as he could make it. It was hard to hold so still, speak so softly, when he wanted to run, wanted to leap. Wanted to find whatever had made his kid cry and punch it until it stopped moving.

It was the gentleness that broke Tim, as it always was. He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath, then looked at Bruce. It all came out in a rush, one word after another in rapid succession, broken and staccato.

"My dad beat me. With a belt. And I don't know what to do. I should call the police. I know that. But I don't know how that would turn out. It was just the one time. He'll win any court case. He'll get me back. And then he might send me away, and I don't want to go away. I don't want to lose Robin. I don't want to stop being your partner. But I don't know how to make it stop. I thought maybe I could talk to him and ask him not to him me so hard. Maybe threaten him with the police. But I don't know if that would work. I didn't want to tell Dick or Alfred or Kon or Steph or anything, because I knew they would just tell me to go to the police anyway. But I figured you might have another idea. You're smart and you're good at figuring things out. So I just wanted to get your advice and your opinion, I guess. I just... What should I do, Bruce? I don't want this to happen again. But I don't want to lose Robin. I love being Robin _so much._ And I know you like me being Robin, too. So I hoped that you would help me figure out how to keep being Robin. But also make this stop. Because he's not gonna stop and I know it can get worse. And even this first time hurt so bad. It hurt so bad, Bruce."

After the first sentence, Bruce sat back on his heels, his hands limp at his sides. His mind felt curiously blank, his vision narrowed and black at the edges. He heard everything Tim was saying with a corner of his mind, cataloging it away, all of those anxieties and misconceptions and hurts to be dealt with later. But right now only one thing mattered, and that was the first thing Tim had said.

Tim finally ran out of words and just stared at him with wide, fearful eyes, his lip caught between his teeth again, arms wrapped around his pillow. "Your father beat you," Bruce said, inwardly astonished at how calm his voice was. "With a belt."

Tim nodded hesitantly.

"May I see?"

Tim nodded again, then buried his face in the pillow and wrapped his arms around his head, trying to hide. He was shaking like a kitten. Bruce stood up, hating the way he loomed over the boy. He carefully lifted the sheet and folded it back. Tim was wearing a black t-shirt and nothing else. From his waist almost to his knees, he was covered with blotchy purple-red bruises and the harsh, raised ridges of welts. His skin was practically _raw._ It must be so, so painful. It was going to be painful for days, maybe weeks.

He lifted the sheet back over Tim's body, covering him up, then went back to kneel back by his head. He rested his hand on Tim's upper back and rubbed in slow circles, listening to his rough, panicked breathing. It didn't sound like he was crying. He'd cried himself out. But he could still sob dryly. It was one of the worst things Bruce had ever heard.

"I don't know what do," Tim whimpered. "Please don't call the police. I don't want to go to a foster home. I don't want to lose Robin. But I don't want this to happen anymore, either. It hurts so much."

"I know," Bruce said grimly. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything."

Those awful, dry sobs tapered off, and Tim peeked at him between his arms. He still looked fearful, but relieved, too. "What... What are you gonna do?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm going to take care of it. This will never happen again, Tim. I guarantee it. And you won't lose Robin. Never. I'll never let you go."

He kept rubbing his back until Tim relaxed and let his arms fall down beside his pillow again. Bruce buried his fingers in Tim's dark locks, scrubbing his fingernails over his scalp, then leaned over and kissed his head as he rose to feet. "You relax. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Tim rolled his head over to look at him as he moved toward the door. His shoulders were tense with fear again. "Where are you going?"

Bruce gave him his best attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'm just going to talk to your father."

Tim's breath hitched. "Don't...don't..." He couldn't seem to get the words out.

Bruce shook his head. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt him." As much as he wanted to. God, Bruce wanted to punch Jack Drake in the face with everything he had in him. "I know that wouldn't do any good. I'm being literal when I say I'm going to talk to him, all right?"

Tim stared at him as if gauging his truthfulness, then nodded hesitantly.

Bruce looked around and saw Tim's desk. He fetched a notebook and a pen and brought them over to the bed to rest near Tim's hand. "Here, make a list of everything you'll need to stay at the manor for a few days. I'll pack them for you when I get back from talking to your father. We'll have to come back for everything else later."

Tim stared up at him, utterly flummoxed. "Everything else?"

Bruce nodded firmly. "You're not going to a foster home, Tim. You're coming home with me. And you're staying. Got it?"

Still, Tim hesitated. "Are...are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Tim didn't look quite reassured. They were going to have to talk about this again later. Bruce gave him another nod, then headed out the door.

As he descended the stairs, he let the rage finally fill him. He'd held it back in Tim's room, unwilling to scare him. Tim had needed comfort, not anger. Jack, though...

By the time his feet hit the ground floor, he was practically vibrating with fury. Bruce stalked to the living room and found Jack sitting in a recliner, reading a book. His own book, as a matter of fact. Of all the narcissistic, egotistical...

Jack raised his head at the sound of his footsteps. "So you're done pouting, son?" His eyes widened when he saw who it was, and his lip curled. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Bruce stood in the doorway, his hands clenching and unclenching as he breathed. "I've come to inform you that I'm resuming my guardianship of Tim. And this time I'll be making it permanent."

Jack snarled and jumped to his feet, letting the book fall to the chair. "What the hell are you talking about?" He power-walked to Bruce, head down and teeth clenched, fists swinging at his sides. "You can't just come in here and tell me that you're taking my son away from me! You have no right!"

"No, _you_ have no right!" Bruce straightened to his full height and glared down at Jack as he stood before him, seething like a tea kettle. He pointed up the stairs, his finger shaking. "You just beat your boy black and blue, and now you have the _gall_ to tell me that I have no right to take him from you?"

"It was discipline!" Jack bellowed. "He was being disrespectful!"

"It was abuse!" Bruce roared back. "And I won't stand for it!"

So much for talking. In Bruce's defense, it was Jack who started yelling first. Bruce was just responding proportionally. He held all the cards here, Jack just didn't know it.

The thought made him grin, sudden and triumphant. "You have no idea, do you?"

Jack paused suddenly and took a step back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've been waiting for you to screw up, Jack. I never liked letting Tim come back to live with you. You were always a piss-poor excuse for a father. I have files, records. All the times you and Janet ignored him and neglected him before your tragic accident, every time you've done the same yourself since you started recovering from your coma. I was willing to give you a second chance because Tim deserved to have a good relationship with his biological father. But you blew it."

As he spoke, he stepped toward Jack, and Jack took a step back. This happened again and again until Jack was backed up against the coffee table in the middle of the room, unable to go further. Bruce grinned, looming over him.

"You blew it, Jack. Every chance you had. Tim is a treasure and a delight, and you never deserved him. You've never done right by him. And now you've lost him. I'll be taking him home now, and I will love him and cherish him the way you never could. You can't do a damn thing to stop me."

Jack sputtered. "You can't... You can't..."

"I can and I will. You want to try to stop me? Please. Throw a punch. It will give me the excuse I've been longing for to beat you to a pulp."

Jack stood still, shaking. His face was red with fury, his lips drawn back from his teeth. But he didn't do it. He didn't throw a punch.

Bruce was a little disappointed. He truly did want to beat Jack like the piece of garbage he was. But Tim was more important.

He took a step back, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Jack did nothing. Bruce turned on his heel and went back up the stairs.

Tim was standing in the middle of the floor, the sheet wrapped around him. He was shaking, his eyes wide. He must have heard them shouting and climbed out of bed instinctively. It must have hurt so much.

Bruce gave him a firm nod as he came back in the room. "Everything's fine. You made your list?"

Tim pointed to the bed, where the notebook was still setting. Bruce took it and glanced over the list, then set the notebook on the desk. "I'll be right back."

He went to the bathroom across the hall and got a couple of painkillers and a glass of water, then brought them back. "Take these."

Tim took the pills and stuck them in his mouth, then took the glass of water, still holding up the sheet with his other hand. He was swaying slightly on his feet, but seemed steady enough for the moment.

"Drink the whole thing," Bruce told him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Tim nodded and began to drink.

Bruce found a duffle bag in the closet and started filling it up with the items on Tim's list, moving swiftly and efficiently around the room. When he was done, Tim had finished the water, and Bruce took the empty glass and set it aside. He had the baggiest pair of boxers he could find in his hand. "Here, let's get these on you."

Tim let the sheet drop, and Bruce knelt down to hold the boxers open for him. "Here, lift your right foot." Tim rested his hand on his shoulder for balance. "Now the other one. That's it, good job."

Tim still hissed a bit when Bruce slid the boxers into place, though he was doing his best to hold the fabric away from his bruised and abraded skin. Every little noise of pain made Bruce clench his teeth and wish even harder that Jack had tried to throw that punch. He wanted to put that man back in the hospital for what he'd done to his kid.

Finally, Bruce was standing in front of Tim, holding his shoulders in his hands. Tim's eyes were closed, his breath coming in slow puffs as he let the pain settle. "It's okay, Tim. Everything's going to be okay."

Tim nodded slowly, his breath evening out. He swayed forward until his head came to rest in the middle of Bruce's chest. He was still shaking, but not as hard as before.

Bruce wrapped his arms around him and held on tight, ducking his head down to rest his nose on Tim's head. "It's okay, kiddo," he murmured. "I've got you. I've got you."

"I messed up," Tim whispered. "I'm a bad son."

Bruce shook his head and held him tighter. He rubbed his hand up and down Tim's back. "No, Timmy. You have a bad father. That's not the same thing at all."

"It was my fault. I ruined everything."

Bruce huffed. "You ruined nothing. You're wonderful. Jack Drake is an idiot who never appreciated you the way he should have. It's his loss, not yours."

"Then why do I feel like I'm losing?"

Bruce heart ached, and he sighed into Tim's hair. This was one of most horrible things about child abuse, really. When it was a kid who was mistreated, victimized by the people who should have treasured them, the kid was the one who lost their stability, their home, their family, usually most of their possessions, sometimes even their friends. And the adults who had perpetrated the crime continued their lives, losing nothing but the child they didn't appreciate anyway. It was horrifically unfair, but there was no way to remedy it.

"I'm sorry, Tim," he said. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. But things are going to get better, all right? You've got me. Me, and Alfred, and Dick, and all your friends. You're not losing any of us. I'm going to take care of you, and I'll never let you go."

Tim nodded against his chest. Bruce held on to him for a while longer, until Tim's shaking ebbed away and he seemed more steady. Then he carefully pulled back and held his shoulders again. "You ready to get out of here?"

Tim nodded. His eyes were dry, but that might have been because he was still a bit dehydrated. Bruce let go of him long enough to sling the duffle over his back, then put a hand on his shoulder and bent down. "Here, put your arm around my neck."

Tim did so, and Bruce picked up with one arm around his shoulders and the other around his knees. Tim's breath hitched when the movement jarred his wounds, then settled against Bruce's chest with a weary sigh. He put his other arm around Bruce's neck as well and turned his face to hide against his shoulder.

Bruce carried him out into the hall and down the stairs. Despite everything, excitement lit in his chest. He was taking Tim home, and he was keeping him this time. He kind of felt like fireworks should be going off.

Jack Drake stood at the front door, blocking their way. Bruce pulled up short, frowning at him as he shifted Tim's weight in his arms to hold him steady. Jack's expression was fierce, though his eyes were wide with fear. He knew what he was risking by getting in Bruce's way like this.

"You're not taking my son," he snarled.

Bruce stood up straighter, the muscles in his arms bunching. "Tim is not your son," he snarled back.

Jack blinked, taken aback. "The hell..."

Bruce shook his head, a frisson of fury shivering down his back. Tim whimpered and tightened his arms around his neck, which was the only thing stopping Bruce from kicking Jack in the chest. "You and Janet donated genetic material to this boy, but you were never his parents. You ignored him and disregarded him and abandoned him from day one. You have _nothing_ to do with who he is now. His kindness, his courage, his cleverness and talent... Those are all his, and his alone. You contributed nothing but base materials. He raised himself. He _made_ himself. And then he came to _me._ He chose me, and I chose him, and you have _no say_ in any of that."

Jack stood there, breathing heavily. "You don't... You don't know anything! You can't..."

Bruce pressed his lips together to keep from spitting in his face. "Open the door, Jack," he said firmly. "Just open the door and let us go. Tim has asked me, practically begged me, not to call the police on you. I was willing to do this quietly, just have you sign custody over and let me take care of him since you are so eminently incapable. But if you fight me, if you cause one more _second_ of discomfort or fear to this child, I will call the police. I will drag you through the mud. I will take you to court. And I will win."

Jack opened the door and let them go. Bruce and Tim went home.

There weren't any fireworks, but there should have been.


End file.
